


Sunshine is a Fucking Dick

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Cancer Arc, Canon Compliant, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hurt/Comfort?  Hurt/Comfort's bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine is a Fucking Dick

 

Justin was pissed. He clearly had no time for bullshit or even earnest entreaties. “You,” he said perilously, “are walking on thin ice. I have just about had enough of you. Take your 'woe-is-me-I-have-cancer' shtick and shove it up your ass.”

Brian had to duck quickly otherwise he would’ve been brained by the jumbo-sized bottle of Echinacea that came whipping through the bathroom door.

“Jesus!” he yelled. “What the . . . . ?!” He was cut off when he had to duck the even bigger, mammoth-sized bottle of multi-vitamins.

“I bought these two days ago!” the kid inappropriately referred to as “Sunshine” yelled. “The fucking seals aren’t even broken. What the fuck, you asshole?! Take them _now ___or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

Brian felt the desire to cringe inside his closet, but that would be so out of character, it was ridiculous. So he stood his ground. 

“Echinacea is a load of shit invented by fucking aging-hippie herb-peddlers” he said defiantly. “And you piss out 99 percent of vitamin pills. They’re a waste of money. Plus I ate some broccoli last night . . .”

Justin approached slowly, his glare full of menace. Brian actually backed away a step.

“I don’t care if you ate an entire fucking vegetable garden,” Justin snarled. “Take your fucking vitamins. Now!”

Justin was a rabid tiger, and Brian was a wounded baby gazelle. There was no chance he’d prevail if he continued to resist the inevitable. “But . . . but I ate broccoli,” he said pathetically.

Justin put his hands on hips. “And what are you doing out of bed? Get in that fucking bed!”

Brian didn’t have the energy to fight a battle on a second front. He dropped onto the bed.

“Will you fluff my pillow?” he asked.

Justin bit his lip. He was going to laugh. Brian gave him the wounded puppy look that he’d learned from hanging out with Mikey for a decade and a half. But Justin wasn’t falling for it the way Brian always did. He had a heart of double-stitched rawhide.

“No,” he said. “But I’ll smother you with it if you give me one more ounce of shit.”

He pulled the duvet up none-too-gently, and then scrunched his nose. “Jesus,” he said. “You stink and not in a sexy, I-want-to-jump-your-bones kind of way.” 

Brian looked at him wearily. “I changed out of the shirt I puked all over last night,” he said. “What more do you want?”

“For you to take a fucking shower. And brush your teeth while you’re at it.”

Brian winced. Toothpaste was triggering his gag reflex these days, and he was fucking sick of barfing all the time. So his teeth were a little fussy? Big deal. If he wasn’t trying to tackle Justin and make out with him, then Brian figured it was neither Justin’s problem nor business.

“Toothpaste makes me vomit,” he said.

“Okay, then how about at least using some Goddamn mouthwash.”

“It’s the mint that makes me sick.”

“Fine. I’ll go to the pet store and buy you some chicken-flavored toothpaste . . .”

Brian was out of bed in a nanosecond, but he didn’t make it to the toilet in time. God, this fucking sucked.

“Remind me again why I didn’t just decide to die from the cancer?” he asked weakly.

“Because you have a business, friends, a son . . . and a fucking partner, you asshole, that’s why!” Justin yelled at him like a sadistic drill sergeant.

Brian collapsed on the floor and curled himself into a ball of misery. “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” he mumbled. “I forgot.”

Justin sighed. “Roll over,” he said. “You’ve got barf in your hair.”

“Don’t care,” Brian said weakly.

“I don’t care that you don’t care,” Justin replied. “Now, get up. You’re taking a shower.”

He helped Brian sit up. The look on his face was hard and uncompromising, but his hands were careful. He knew, even though Brian hadn’t told him, that Brian’s whole body hurt . . . even his skin and the roots of his hair. It was the flu times ten.

Justin must’ve read about it as part of the research they both knew he was doing day and night even though neither of them mentioned it. By now, Justin had studied enough oncology that he should be given an honorary degree. Brian had actually started trusting his advice over his doctors’.

Once he was sitting up, Justin came around so he was crouched in front of him. He put his hands under Brian’s arms and struggled to raise Brian to his feet. It took several tries before he succeeded.

“Come on,” he said. His voice was as cool and emotionless as the nurses’ at the hospital. “Put your arm over my shoulder.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? It’ll bring my armpit closer to your nose,” Brian said as he stumbled with Justin’s help to the bathroom. "I'm under the impression that you aren't particularly fond of my armpits at the moment."

“Don’t worry,” Justin replied. “You stink so horribly that you’ve already destroyed my sense of smell. My sinuses have eroded.”

Brian chuckled.

Once they were in the bathroom, Justin helped him out of his t-shirt, sweatpants and underwear. When Brian was naked, Justin sat him down on the toilet and turned on the shower.

“Okay,” he said, turning back to Brian. “Stand up. I’m going to reintroduce you to soap.”

Brian reached out for him, and Justin hauled him to his feet.

“Can you stand or would you rather sit down?” Justin asked. “I’d prefer it if you stood because it’ll be easier to wash your nasty ass crack.”

Brian huffed out a laugh despite the nausea churning in his gut. He braced himself against the shower wall with both hands and closed his eyes while Justin scrubbed every inch of his body. His touch was firm enough to make Brian feel clean again, but not so firm that it hurt. When he was done, Justin wrapped his soapy fingers around Brian’s cock and stroked it slowly. It hardened but not all the way. Damn, it felt good though. It didn’t matter – to either of them - that Brian couldn't get a hard-on. The point, Brian knew, was that Justin was saying, _You still turn me on. I don’t care how shitty you may look or how disgusting you smell, I still find you hot as all hell_. After a couple minutes, Brian took over stroking himself, and they both watched as Justin jerked off to orgasm. He was hard, and it didn’t take long at all. He closed his eyes and moaned loudly, even louder than he did when they actually fucked.

Brian kissed him. He appreciated the performance. More than Justin could ever imagine.

“Jesus, you’re fucking hot,” he whispered against Justin’s ear.

“Not half as hot as you, stud muffin,” Justin said. “One ball or not. It doesn’t fucking matter.”

Brian rolled in his lips. He was weak, physically and emotionally, and he wasn’t sure whether Justin’s words made him want to laugh or cry.

“C’mon,” Justin said, not giving him the opportunity to do either. “Let’s dry you off and get you back into bed. I’ll change the sheets – they’ve probably got moss growing in them.”

“Gross,” Brian said as he slowly dried himself off.

“Sometimes the truth hurts,” Justin replied.

Brian sat back down on the toilet and watched Justin deftly strip off the old sheets and put on new one ones. He even changed the mattress and duvet covers. Suddenly, Brian felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him. He’d discovered that it wasn’t the first couple days of his weekly treatment that were the worst, it was the following three. The weekends were supposed to be recovery time, but “recovery” simply meant a slight diminishment in the nausea and enough energy to get through a meal at the diner and a pool game or two at Woody’s.

“Up, up,” Justin said in his no-nonsense voice. He took both of Brian’s hands and hauled him to his feet. Together they walked over to the bed where Brian gratefully collapsed and crawled under his nice, new, clean sheets. Justin went to the kitchen and brought back two tall glasses – one of water, the other of ginger ale, which helped a bit with the nausea.

“Where’s my phone?” Brian croaked.

“In my jacket pocket,” Justin replied. “Got a problem with that?”

Brian frowned, suddenly miffed. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem with that. What if someone needs to reach me – like Cynthia or Ted . . .”

“Then they can tell me what it is, and if I think it’s sufficiently urgent, I’ll wake you up. Besides, they’re not going to call. They value their jobs too much . . . . and you,” he added more softly.

Brian grumbled perfunctorily.

Justin let his towel drop to the floor and went to the closet.

“You going out?” Brian asked, trying not to sound too invested in the answer.

Justin turned around and gave him a scornful "duh?" look. “Of course, I’m going out,” he said. “I have shit to do. What? Did you think I was going to hang around all day babysitting your ass?”

Brian turned his head and smiled into his pillow. They both knew that if Brian got even a hint that Justin was altering his life to take care of him, Brian would freak out and epically lose his shit. And both of them knew he was too weak for histrionics. 

Brian listened to Justin fuss around in the kitchen. 

“There’s a Tupperware of chicken soup thawing in the sink,” he said. “Eat it.”

“Or?”

“Or wear it when I get home.”

Brian laughed. “Have a good day, Sunshine,” he called out when Justin opened the door.

“I plan to,” Justin replied. 

And then he was gone.

 

Brian received treatment five days a week. The first couple of days weren’t that bad, and he usually felt well enough to go to Kinnetik for a few hours. But that didn’t mean he was free of that little, blond asshole who was making his life hell on earth.

Brian had come to the point where he could set his watch by it: five hours to the minute he’d walked in the building, Cynthia would knock on his door.

“Come in,” he’d grumble.

“Justin just called,” she’d say. “He says he’s got a pair of shears and will cut every single one of your Armani suits into ribbons and then take a crap in your newest pair of Prada shoes if you don’t get your ass home right now.”

Brian would look at her with his leave-me-the-fuck-alone expression. “He says that all the time, and he’s never done it yet,” he’d say.

“That’s because you’ve always gone home,” Cynthia would reply. “You’ve never actually tested his resolve.”

Brian would glare at her as though she was more than just the messenger, which, in truth, she was. Far from an innocent go-between, she was in cahoots with Sunshine The Oppressor.

“He wouldn’t,” Brian would say.

“Do you want to test that theory?” Cynthia would ask.

Silence.

The truth – the honest-to-fucking-God truth – was that Brian really wasn’t sure that Justin _wouldn’t_ do as he threatened. Justin had become the wildest of wild cards. Just the _thought_ of crossing him was stressful.

“He says you have twenty minutes,” Cynthia would say. “There’s a cab waiting out front.”

The little fucker.

“Tell him I’m busy,” Brian would snarl.

Cynthia would just go to the closet to get his coat.

“See you tomorrow, boss,” she’d say once she’d helped him into it. Brian would grouse and grumble all the way to the cab, but when he got home and was met with the smell of something nice and warm and bland cooking on the stove, he’d feel his body let go of the act it was putting on for the world. He’d collapse on the couch and Justin would throw the remote at him. When he’d turn on the T.V., there’d already be a DVD – one of his favorites – all set up and ready to go with the push of the play button. And when he fell asleep halfway through, he’d wake up with his head in Justin’s lap and Justin’s fingers combing through his hair while he read a comic book. Neither of them would say a word.

But then the next morning, everything would return to normal.

“Are you getting up or do you plan to wallow in bed all day?” Justin would ask. He’d be standing near the bed looking down at Brian with an expression of poorly concealed disgust.

Usually Brian would grudgingly haul himself out of bed, but sometimes he didn’t feel well enough, so he’d mutter that he “planned on wallowing and fuck you if you don’t like it.”

That was Justin’s cue that Brian was feeling really, _really_ sick.

“Fine,” he’d say. “Be a slacker. Just don’t come crying to me when your business goes belly-up.”

He’d stomp off to the living room where he’d call his cell phone on the landline and then answer it.

“Hey, Michael . . . what? Shit! I was hoping we could work on it today. Jesus, Michael, the deadline for the next issue is coming up . . . okay, fine . . . sure. I’m free tomorrow. How’s ten? . . . alright, I’ll see you then.”

Brian would pull the duvet over his head so that Justin couldn’t hear him laughing. Not that Justin didn’t know he knew that it was all a ruse; it was just . . . so fucking sweet. And though he’d never admit it in a million years, Brian was grateful not to be left alone.

“I have work to do, so I can’t wait on your ass,” Justin would call from the living room.

“Never asked you to,” Brian would call back.

“Good,” Justin would reply.

“Good,” would be Brian’s witty response, and then he’d go to sleep until Justin woke him up for lunch.

“Chicken soup _again_?” Brian would piss and moan because, honestly, he really was fucking sick to death of chicken soup.

“Shut up and eat it,” Justin would reply sympathetically.

Brian would sit down at the table.

“So?” he’d say exasperatedly. “Where’s my fucking soup? And don’t forget the Saltines.”

Without comment or ceremony, Justin would drop a bowl in front of him, causing the soup to slosh on the table.

“Hello? Saltines?” Brian would say.

“Coming right up, your majesty,” Justin would reply, dropping a plate of crackers by the bowl of soup. “Anything else, your royal highness?”

Brian would grumble perfunctorily and eat as much as he could. Sometimes that was just a few slurps and nibbles, a performance that Justin always mocked.

“That’s it?” he’d taunt. “A weak, little faggot could manage more than that.”

Pretending to be provoked, Brian would eat a bit more. They both pretended that the upbraiding had been sufficient to get him to do something he really didn’t want to do even though they both knew it had to be done if Brian was going to get better.

Then Brian would go back to bed, listening to the sound of Justin puttering around washing dishes and putting things away. Later, when he’d hear Justin talking in a low voice on the phone, he knew it was with his doctor.

_He’s throwing up again, and I’m really worried. I thought that was supposed to stop after a while._

_He’s too tired to get out of bed. Are you sure that’s normal?_

_He’s had diarrhea for days. I’m trying to get him to drink as much as possible, but I don’t know if it’s enough. I’m worried he’ll get dehydrated. Should I bring him to the hospital?_

_He’s miserable. Can’t you put off the next treatment for just a couple of days?_

_He’s sick of chicken soup. What else can I give him to eat that won’t irritate his stomach?_

_He fainted and scared the living shit out of me. Are you absolutely sure things are going just fine?_

_He’s trying to hide it, but I can tell his testicle is uncomfortable. When he comes in again, will you please make sure everything is healing as it should?_

_How much sleep is too much?_

_He’s constantly saying he feels cold – is that normal?_

_Should I be encouraging him to exercise or is it too soon?_

_He’s losing weight like crazy, and his skin is really dry. I know these are normal side effects, but how long will it continue? How much weight loss is too much?_

_He’s having ‘bladder cramps’? What the hell are bladder cramps? . . . Seriously? You want me to see if there’s blood in his urine? You’re kidding me. I’m already pushing the boundaries of his privacy as it is._

_He looks like walking is painful sometimes: is it his hip joints? I know you said it’s a common side effect, but it’ll go away, right?_

_He has a fever. It keeps getting higher. I feel so damn helpless!_

When Justin would hang up the phone, he’d come into the bedroom to check on him. If he just sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him for a while, Brian would pretend to be dead asleep, but if he started crying with frustration and fear, Brian would reach for his hand and give it a hard, probably painful, squeeze. Justin wouldn’t even flinch, and his responding squeeze would be just as hard. Brian would keep his eyes closed. Neither of them would speak.

 

“How’s that hot nurse who wants to get into your pants?” Justin asked when Brian walked in the door after undergoing the fortieth, and hopefully final, treatment. 

“Still wanting to get in my pants,” Brian replied, hanging up his coat. “I’m playing hard to get.” 

“You tease,” Justin said, descending upon Brian with a baby carrot aimed straight at his mouth. There weren’t many options: either Brian opened his mouth and ate it or Justin would stuff it up his nose. He’d learned that crucial lesson the hard way.

“So,” Brian said with his mouth full of carrot. “What’s for dinner? Chicken soup, chicken soup or chicken soup?”

“Chicken soup,” Justin replied. “You’re gonna eat it, and you’re gonna like it.”

Brian sat down. “You realize,” he said. “I will _never_ eat chicken soup again once this shit is all through.”

“Ditto,” said Justin, who’d been eating chicken soup every time Brian had.

They ate in comfortable silence. God, he was _so_ fucking glad that the hell was coming to an end . . . .

. . . . although it wasn’t. The radiation might not have worked. The cancer might still be there. It could spread. It could still kill him . . .

Not that long ago, the thought wouldn’t have scared him. Inevitable decay would’ve given him the excuse he was always half looking for – the excuse to go out in a blaze of glory. The excuse to die young and beautiful . . .

But things were different now. He wasn’t going to think about it too deeply, but they were.

He put his spoon down and stared at Justin until Justin realized something was up and stopped eating as well.

“If I die, don’t let them bury me in a suit from last season’s collection,” Brian said matter-of-factly. “It’s the latest season or nothing at all. Bury me naked if you can’t bury me in the height of fashion.”

Justin put his spoon down and looked at him. “You are such a pathetic label queen.” 

Brian assumed an offended expression. “Pathetic? There’s nothing ‘pathetic’ about being classy. Oh, and by the way, don’t let Lindsay lay a fucking rose on my chest. It’s so . . .”

“. . . so heteronormative.”

“Exactly.” 

“But what if Michael wants to bury you with an action figure?”

Brian shuddered. “I’m counting on you to ensure that doesn't happen, and if it does, I will come back to haunt you. I do _not_ want to spend eternity with Wonder Woman.”

“How about Super Man? He's hot.”

Brian pretended to think for a moment and then shook his head. “If I _have_ to be buried with an action figure, then I vote for Captain America. He’s so wholesome and ripe to be debauched.”

“And what about Deb?” Justin asked. “What if she wants to drape your corpse with a black velvet tapestry featuring a howling wolf or a kitten with a crystal teardrop or something equally unthinkable?”

“Tell her I’d prefer the matador. It’s the matador or nothing, which means it’ll be nothing because she’ll never part with that fucking ugly matador tapestry. It’s half moth-eaten, but she still won’t throw it out.”

“And Mel . . . what if she wants to drive a stake through your heart so that if you turn into a vampire, you can’t come back and bite her.”

Brian shuddered. “As though I’d ever bite Melanie. Ugh.”

“And what about me?” he said. “What if I . . .”

They both fell silent. The game wasn’t funny anymore, and they both knew it.

“. . . what if I wanted to be buried with you?” he said in a choked whisper that he quickly tried to disguise as a cough.

Brian reached across the table and took his hand, but that was it. He wasn’t going to look into Justin’s eyes. This was as far as it would go. After a moment or two, Justin pulled his hand out of Brian’s and stood up. He collected both of their bowls and silverware and went to the kitchen where he turned on the sink and made an unnecessary amount of noise.

“Just so you know,” he said after a minute. “If you die, you’ll really piss off Daphne. I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Once when we were in grade school we were playing tackle football and she kneed me in the groin. I couldn’t walk for days.”

Brian cringed. The thought of a knee getting within a country mile of his poor abused balls was too horrible to contemplate.

“Okay, okay,” he replied as though he were trying to placate an angry deity. “I won’t die.”

Justin looked at him and rolled his eyes.

“Right,” he said. “Prove it.”

Brian glowered at him. “Fine,” he said. “I will.”

Justin smiled a huge sunshiny smile. “So, stud,” he said. “Can I talk you into a sundae with warm chocolate syrup?”

“Maybe,” Brian replied coyly.

“If I let you have one, will you promise not to barf it up all over me at three o’clock in the morning?”

Brian winced. “Uhm . . . I’ll try,” he said.

Justin started to laugh like a crazy person. For some unfathomable reason that Brian could not understand, Justin seemed to find his answer absolutely, fucking hilarious.

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaha! Can you tell I had fun with this? The funniest thing about it? It's one of the most shamelessly romantic QaF stories I've written.


End file.
